During the last couple of weeks I found myself either drowning in the works of James Joyce or making long excursions into the history of London sewers. (The godfather of interior monologue being the most natural choice for my impending English literature exam , I have been a major Joyce fan even years before I saw him in his his Ewan McGregor incarnation *g*. My sudden interest in sewers, cesspits and the achievements of Victorian engineer Joseph Balzagette mostly derives from the need for yet another history term paper; however it's a quite fascinating subject. For anyone curious about the sanitory problems of a true metropolis, a good online summary can be found here.)

The increased academic activity seems to have had a rather peculiar effect on my brain. On the one hand it left me with a strangely insatiable hunger for words. Apart from study related books, I re-read one of my favourite historical novels (selenak will know which one *g*), Stephen King's Bag of Bones, which instantly made it into the Top Five of my favourite King books (yeah, call me heretical, but a) I love King and b)always find myself able to enjoy his newer works as much as the old) and am currently on page 57 of Iain Pears' An Instance of the Fingerpost. All these books have well over 700 pages.

On the downside of all this reading I have neglected online correspondence and LJ to a point which makes me feel like fandom's most uncommunicative, unfaithful daughter.

Also, there is this wonderful little poem cavendish had written for me shortly after Selena had kindly outed me as secret lover of the Wizarding World's most hated bureaucrat in her comment on my previous entry *g*

Somewhat older, cameinto your vision: a manhis face was hidden, morethe spiritual type, a swordof light, and not of steel.His chastity, his sad looks:were they to be admiredor to be broken?In fiction only.

And now, with almost thirty, abureaucrat it is, grey hair, great power,wealth and: a dark secret:Will the lonely man on his deserted planetgrieve? Will the age old Horseman (?)come storming to your rescue? Would youdesire him to come?

Or can you lovethe three of themtogether, as observer orcreator? Imagine:what the story would be like.What time? And how wouldit take place?

And if it came to contest, who would- strictly fictionally spoken -win? Sword or Money?Mind or voice? Spiritual orworldly greed? An alliance, maybe,formed by two that wouldremain, with you, and oneyour sacrifice?Will an apologize be made by thosesurvived?

At least ‘tis I who mustapologize for letting myimagination go astray: in fiction that inreality should stay. And stay there only.

The observations made in this poem are about as witty as they are true, I guess. cavendish has witnessed and endured my fannish passions since the mid nineties ;-)

Oh dear, Giles. How could I fail to remember ;-)). She will probably stop talking to me for the rest of the day ;-)) (most likely, though, due to the fact that it is past ten and we will not meet today ;-) ) But Mulder? Ok, there is this poster above her bed, but still ... ;-)

Anyhow this "changing men" habit of hers seems to be restricted to virtual persons only ;-), at least as far as I know ;-))

Well then. A sonnet. About my most beloved Ferengi, Quark. *gg*

A sonnet on Quark indeed :-)). This is a challenge ... Ok, give me two weeks time :-). Maybe two and a half as a sonnet bonus ;-))